


Jasper

by ssstrychnine



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-24 00:47:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2561876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssstrychnine/pseuds/ssstrychnine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl and Carol take a break on their hunt for the car with the white cross.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jasper

When the dark starts to lift, Carol makes them stop.

“We can’t follow them without the dark,” she says, reasonably. “We’re about to run out of gas anyway, and you need some sleep. Atlanta will be crawling, we have to prepare.”

And Daryl grumbles, but she rests a hand on his arm, digging her fingers in slightly, and it’s brave and desperate and he knows that she’s at her last too. She’s probably had no more sleep than he has since Terminus. Since before. He pulls over before it’s full light, somewhere in the outskirts of Atlanta. They leave the car, move together in silence, weapons drawn and ready without a word. There are a few walkers, stragglers, shuffling around, but mostly they've picked a place that’s pretty empty. Daryl takes them out with his bow and they crumple in on themselves like crushed cans. 

Carol picks they place they will stay. It’s an industrial area so there aren't many options, but she spots an old, shabby motel and she reasons that at least there will be beds there. She’s feeling light and strange, more free than she’s felt in a long time. She would have left the group anyway, for guilt and fear and _punishment_ , but she would have missed it, Daryl especially, and it would have hurt. This hurts too, but it doesn't feel real yet, not while she’s standing with Daryl, staring up at the crooked, blown out neon of the _Sleepy Time Motel_.

She goes to the manager’s office first, plucks a key from the rack behind the counter (there is a man with his head caved in, half eaten and rotting on the floor). She dangles it in front of Daryl’s face.

“The honeymoon suite for Mr and Mrs....Dixon,” she says, grinning widely. 

“Stop,” he mutters, but he’s rubbing a hand across his mouth to hide a smile and her expression turns victorious. 

They head to the room. Carol unlocks it and Daryl trains his crossbow over her head, but it’s empty. Everything smells stale, like washing left in the machine for too long. There is an armchair, a double bed, a TV covered in an inch of dust. Carol opens the drawer of the side table, pulls out a small bedside clock triumphantly. The battery hasn’t run flat, the hands tick quietly.

“Four hours,” she says. “We’ll sleep four hours, it’ll be eleven then, still most of the day left to search.”

“Not enough time to search a whole city,” he shrugs, pulling the curtains closed, jamming the armchair against the door. “No leads to go on.”

Carol is silent. She sits at the edge of the bed, plucks at threads from the pilling duvet cover. She wonders how many more girls will be chewed up and spat out by this thing.

“Girls like Beth,” Daryl starts, but his voice fails. He slumps into the armchair, tugs at the strap of his bow where it’s resting on his chest. “Girls like Sophia. This stuff ruins ‘em.” 

_Girls like Lizzie_ , Carol wants to say but can't, _girls like Mika_. 

“Beth is strong,” she says instead. 

“Yeah,” Daryl sighs. “There’s still a whole lotta city to look through.”

Carol lies down on the bed, shuffles backward until her head is resting at the top. She slips her knife under the pillow, places her gun on the side table, she shrugs her jacket off but leaves her boots on. It would take too long to lace them if they need to leave fast. Daryl doesn’t move, just slumps down lower in his chair.

“You’d leave your wife alone in bed on your honeymoon?” Carol asks, pitching her voice high, fluttering a hand at her mouth like she’s in shock, outraged. The corner of Daryl’s mouth twitches.

“I wouldn't ‘a thought you’d want another husband,” he mumbles, eyes flicking to her and away, testing the waters. She closes her eyes, smiles, taps her lower lip with the tip of her index finger.

“You’re right about that,” she says calmly, after a pause. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll let you be married to me just in here. Just these four hours.” 

“Gracious of ya,” Daryl raises his eyes skyward, smirks at the ceiling. “I ain't even got you a ring.”

“What will the neighbours think?” 

Daryl moves, shrugging the bow off his shoulder and crossing the room in one fluid motion. He puts the bow down on the other side table, takes his jacket off, and his vest, leaving only his shirt, rolled at the elbows. He sits on the bed, then pulls his legs up, stretches out until he’s next to her properly. They don’t touch, there’s a thousand miles between them.

“Actually,” he says, frowning, fumbling in the pocket of his pants. “I got something.”

Carol cracks one eye open, squints sideways at the thing Daryl’s holding in his hand. A stone, murky green in the dim light of the room. It would be beautiful in sunlight, shined up some, Carol knows green Jasper.

“I picked it up when we were out getting the meds. It was for a grave but I never got round to puttin’ it down. You can have it, y’know, to keep your reputation.” 

Carol takes the stone, raises it high, catches what little light the room has, turning it brilliant and bright. She turns away from Daryl when the tears start, crying into her pillow and holding the stone so tight in her fist that her hand aches. She can feel Daryl next to her, watching her, carefully not not moving, and she’s grateful for it. She cries silently until there’s a large patch of wet on the pillowcase and she feels like she has nothing left inside her (this will never be true, she will drown in her grief one day). She wipes her face with the back of a hand, turns back to Daryl, paints herself a smile. He is chewing at his lip, looking at her like she’s about to snap or like she already has but he can’t bring himself to leave her. 

“Thank you, Daryl,” she says quietly.

“Welcome,” he mumbles. “Sorry it ain't diamonds.” 

“It’s better,” she says. “Now get some sleep, darling husband, it’s wearing me out just looking at you.”

She shifts onto her back, tucks the stone carefully into her pocket, then pillows her head in her hands. She stares at the ceiling, can’t see Daryl, can only feel him shuffling about, turning toward her against all probability, and she swears she can hear him muttering something about a _ball and chain_ , so quiet she’ll never be sure, but she smiles anyway. 

While he’s sleeping his arm creeps across her waist and it wakes her, but she doesn't mind. She pats at the lump in her pocket that is her stone, their shotgun, four hour, wedding ring, and she snuggles into him and closes her eyes again. 

When they’re back on the road again, Carol is driving. Daryl’s feet are on the dashboard and his eyes are narrowed, taking everything in all at once. 

“Since we’re not married anymore, I’ll be wanting that stone back,” he says, as they enter Atlanta.

“Not on your life,” Carol replies easily. “I think we ought to be looking for churches and hospitals, that’s what a white cross means to me, sound good?”

“Sure,” he shrugs, and they move between tall buildings, the smallest thing in a city huge and empty of everything but the dead.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for Rhinozilla's 30 days of caryl challenge. I'll probably do these sporadically and out of order. This is for the jasper stone day which is day 18 so... anyway. I just wanted to write fluff really.


End file.
